


Sherlock One-Shots

by ShowMeAHero



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-20
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:45:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots of the BBC Sherlock fandom. If there's any one-shot fic you like in particular, let me know, I could write some more. In any case, enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Talking To The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> The song used in italics is Bruno Mars' "Talking to the Moon", which is also where the chapter title comes from.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two lonely men are broken and separate.

_I know you're somewhere out there,_

_Somewhere far away._

_I want you back,_

_I want you back._

A lonely man, an average-sized one with dark blue-grey eyes and sandy light-brown hair, sat alone in an armchair. He was looking out the window of his first floor flat at the stars and the moon, so empty. He stared at the moon, wondering what could be out there for him at all, now that he's lost everything he had, everyone he could ever want. All he could do was remember the man he lost, the only thing he had. He wants him back.

_My neighbors think I'm crazy,_

_But they don't understand._

_You're all I have,_

_You're all I have._

The elderly light-haired neighbor knocked tentatively on the door to the flat. The lonely man turned around, reaching for his cane and hobbling to the door to let her in. She came in carrying a tray loaded with two teacups, a teapot, and lots of bread and jams. She set it on the table and turned to face the lonely man.

"Dear, you need to eat something." she said in her soft, gentle voice, placing her hand on his shoulder. The lonely man just stared at her absently, not really recognizing her, because she wasn't who he wanted. She wasn't who he needed, his everything. "Dear?"

The lonely man touched his free hand to hers reassuringly, patting it before looking back out the window, at the moon, at the street, maybe he was waiting for someone to return. The little old woman watched after him worriedly.

"I don't need to eat, sometimes." the lonely man told her quietly. The woman looked at him, scanning his face.

"You remind me of him sometimes, you picked up his little habits." she whispered. The lonely man looked back down at the woman. A choked breath escaped his throat before he covered his face.

"Please leave." he asked, his voice louder than before, but still not a normal register. The woman nodded, kissing his cheek and leaving, shutting the door softly behind her.

_At night when the stars light up my room,_

_I sit by myself talking to the moon,_

_Trying to get to you,_

_In hopes you're on the other side talking to me, too._

The lonely man looked down at the tray his neighbor left before hobbling back to the chair, dropping his cane on the floor with a careless clatter and falling into the cushions. He held his face in his hands, warm, salty water dripping from his eyes into his palms and down his wrists as the apartment was filled with the only kind of noise it really heard from the man lately. Sobs tore from his lungs and throat, and he looked up out the window to distract himself.

With the lights all out, with the fire out in the fireplace, the only light in the room came from the bright stars in the clear London sky. The shining moon was full tonight, the sad opposite of this empty man who was looking at it for an answer.

"Why you? Why didn't you think of me before you left?" the man whispered to the moon. "Your work came first. I thought you loved me. I should've known better."

Even though the lonely man knew he came first to the one he lost, he was trying to make himself feel better by making him feel like he didn't really matter. So that maybe he wouldn't be so alone.

_Or am I a fool who sits alone_

_Talking to the moon?_

The lonely man watched the moon, waiting for his answer. "Didn't you love me? Didn't I matter?"

The moon stared back blankly, her face white, perhaps drained of color in her embarrassment that the lonely man knew the truth.

Maybe it drained in death. The man thought blankly before allowing a fresh round of sobs to come from the thought.

 _Don't be ridiculous. You're a fool._ The lonely man sniffed, rubbing his face with his calloused hands, feeling a familiar twang in his shoulder from an old injury. The moon will not answer you. The moon is not him.

He looked at the moon a second longer, waiting, before he looked back down at the street. A woman was pointing to his window.

_I'm feeling like I'm famous, the talk of the town._

_They say I've gone mad._

_Yeah, I've gone mad._

The lonely man watched the woman pointing, and she spoke to her friend.

 _That's where the mad man lives. He lost his husband, poor thing. He never comes out anymore._ The man read the words on her lips, but they no longer held any meaning. He saw the words all the time. He heard them occasionally, when the elderly neighbor would force his window open for air. But it made no difference. Maybe he is mad. But what does it matter, when the only person who he kept him sane was gone?

 _He can't be gone. He lived through so much._  The lonely man thought, but he knew it had to be true. He remembered vaguely the knock downstairs, opening his own door to see who it was his elderly neighbor, who is his landlady, was talking to. A woman in professional clothing, texting while she spoke. The landlady gasped at what the woman said, but the woman did not care; she turned and left, never looking up from her phone. The elderly woman clapped her hand over her mouth, sobbing, tears running over her fingers, her other hand clasping the doorframe for support. The lonely man had run down the seventeen steps, helping her, pulling her arm around his shoulders, supporting her weight.

He had to wait for her to calm down to hear what had happened. He didn't remember anything for a few days after that.

_But they don't know what I know._

_'Cause when the sun goes down,_

_Someone's talking back._

_Yeah, they're talking back._

Sometimes, he could still hear his voice. His voice calling from the other armchair, asking for this or that. Sometimes, he'd ask that empty, drained moon a question, and hear an answer.

"Why didn't you love me?" the lonely man would ask the moon, and a deep voice spoke behind him.

"Of course I loved you. Don't be an idiot. I couldn't live without you." the voice would say, too familiar, too painful. The lonely man would turn around, whip his head, trying to catch a glimpse, but the man to match the voice was never there. Probably his imagination. He probably was mad, but maybe, just maybe...

 _No, no maybes. He's not there._  The lonely man told himself, in what he was hoping would be a reassuring way, but it still hurt.

_At night when the stars light up my room,_

_I sit by myself, talking to the moon,_

_Trying to get to you._

_In hopes you're on the other side talking to me, too._

The lights, dull so far from their source, but still so bright, filled the lonely man's room as he reclined. He probably hadn't slept in four days by now. The nightmares weren't worth it, picturing how he might've gone, seeing it for himself. It was too much to bear, far too much.

He wondered what he looked like when he stumbled, taking down the man he so despised. At least that little bit of sun shined through the mushroom cloud that had become his life. The man who was responsible was dead at the hands of the man who he killed.

The lonely man stared up at the moon, farther to the right then she had been the last time the man looked up. He narrowed his eyes.

"You're not leaving me, too." he whispered. "I want..."

"What do you want?" the deep voice asked quietly behind him, in that prying tone he had when he was trying to understand what the lonely man was thinking.

"I want to talk to you again." he told the moon, trying to ignore the voice. "I want you back home with me, where you belong. But, I hope you're in a good place. That other side."

_Do you ever hear me calling?_

_'Cause every night I'm talking to the moon,_

_Still trying to get to you._

"Please come back! Please!" the lonely man screamed at the window, at the moon, who stared back. The man had decided the moon was not embarrassed, or absent. She was cold, she didn't care. She wasn't going to give him anything except madness. "I need you! Please come home!" The moon just watched him coldly, indifferent.

"Please come home." his voice was lowering, whimpering, losing all the power it had gained so suddenly. Another tentative knock at the door, and the man flew to the door, struggling to walk without his cane. He wrenched the door open and clenched the doorframe.

"What?" he demanded, and the little landlady looked up at him, startled.

The landlady touched his face gently. "Oh, dear, I heard you shouting, I-"

"You what? You brought him back for me? I don't think you did!" the lonely man shouted at her, completely disregarding his breaking voice and pouring tears, his gasping breaths and tears in his throat.

"Love, come here." the little old lady helped him away from the door, shutting it, half-carrying him to the sofa under the bullethole-riddled wall, where he could barely see out the window. He caught a sliver of the moon.

"Thank you." he whispered to the woman covering his shoulders in an orange blanket. She nodded and laid a hand on his hair before going to retrieve the tray. The lonely man stared at the moon.

"I love you." he told it, empty, hoping for one last shot, but knowing he won't get it.

_In hopes you're on the other side talking to me, too_

_Or am I a fool who sits alone_

_Talking to the moon?_

Another lonely man sat beside the large rock formation, clothes torn, long limbs wrapped around themselves in an attempt to keep warm in the dark night. His extraordinarily light eyes stared at the moon, his dark curls falling messily all over his head, matted with sweat and water. His ripped scarf hung around his neck, his long trenchcoat hanging off of him in tatters, the rest of his clothes strung together between two trees to form a makeshift tent.

"I hope you haven't lost hope." he told the moon, though he didn't really see the moon. All he could see was the face of his lonely man. "I'm still here, I'm going to come home."

The moon stared back. Cold, indifferent. She always was, since the first time he saw her after this all happened. At least her face was changing over time, becoming more and more like the lonely man's face every time he looked.

"I hope you're waiting for me." he told the moon, his husband's face, before looking at his long hands, his arms bent at sharp angles around his thin legs and gangly frame. "I love you."

_I know you're somewhere out there, somewhere far away._


	2. Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John likes his life. Fortunately, Sherlock likes it even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is immediately following 'The Great Game'.

John nods, Sherlock watches him closely, communicates with him between their eyes, just to make sure it was understood what was going to happen. John's eyes told him to do it, that it'd be okay if he did it. Sherlock trusted him then.

Sherlock didn't trust him as much now. He was holding his breath underwater as long as he could, eyes stinging with chlorine as he watched the last of the explosion above. He resurfaced barely to check, making sure no one was there, and he was right. They were gone, walls were gone, rubble was everywhere.

_Where was John?_

Sherlock remembered John tackling him into the water, John crying out in pain, John's weight disappearing. He got too distracted,  _where is John?_

Sherlock climbed out of the pool, soaking wet, dripping water all over the space he was standing in. He scanned the area quickly, the rubble, no sign of John. He turned to the water, half-hopeful there'd be nothing there.

Of course there was something there.

John acted on instinct, covering Sherlock's body with his own, getting him into the sanctuary of the water, protecting him to the best of his ability.

Searing pain shooting through his head, into his stomach, into his chest, through his leg, so much pain. There was a splash, there was a strangled noise - was that from his own mouth? - and then there was darkness. Silence.

John forced himself to think of Sherlock.

When he opened his eyes, it was just white. He wondered for a moment whether or not he was dead. Then he heard the beeping, and started feeling the dull throbs of pain, and he was almost disappointed to be alive.

Almost. If it hadn't been for Sherlock, he definitely would've been disappointed.

"John? Are you awake?" Sherlock's low voice asks from somewhere on his left, voice uncharacteristically trembling. John turns his head and regrets that decision immediately. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth at the pain that shoots through his head like lightning.

"Yes." John answers, his voice scratching quietly out of his throat. He tried clearing it, but it just hurt his throat worse.

"How do you feel?" Sherlock sounded worried, so worried, and John shut his eyes again.

"Horrible." John replies, and makes an attempt at a chuckle. No good. "You?"

"Scared." Sherlock admits quietly. John opens his eyes again.

"Oh, Sherlock. Are you okay? What's wrong, what are you scared of?" John ignored the pain in his throat as terror rose in his chest, threatening to clog his throat up.

"I wasn't hurt at all. Couple bruises from hitting the bottom of the pool diving in after you. Nothing important." Sherlock waved his hand and stared into John's eyes. "I was scared for you. You've been asleep for six days."

"Have you been eating?" John asked immediately; he knew of Sherlock's habit of forgetting of eat when other things absorbed his interest.

"Wha-yes, I've been eating, Molly's been making me eat three meals a day." Sherlock seemed puzzled by the question. "Why do you ask that?"

"Just making sure. You tend to forget." John forced the words out. "Is there water?"

"Ye-yes, give me a moment." Sherlock poured water from a water bottle into a little paper cup and held it to John's lips, tilting it. "Drink."

John did as he was told, enjoying the cool relief in his throat. "Injuries?"

"The explosion only caused minimal damage, blowing away a bit of your right thigh." Sherlock's voice was steady, the voice he used when he had to explain or describe things. "Unfortunately, it caused bits of wall and floor and lockers and such to also explode. A few pieces got lodged in your torso, especially in your chest, but a couple in your stomach. Some got in your head, and-"

John furrows his brows in concern when Sherlock stopped talking and covered his face. "Sherlock?"

"There was so much blood. The water was all red, you weren't moving, weren't opening your eyes, you were barely even breathing, I thought I lost you." Sherlock told him from behind his hand, his voice breaking oddly.

John understood quickly. "I'm okay. You saved me, quite obviously, so you don't even need to-"

"-I think I love you." Sherlock interrupted him. John stared at him blankly, his eyes still cloudy. He looked so fragile, so frail. His head was wrapped completely in bandages, as was his entire torso, and his entire right leg was completely encased in a cast. His skin was so pale and so thin it was almost translucent, his eyes clouded, his cheeks and lips waxen and drained of color, both of his hands connected to machines or IV drips.

"You what?" John whispered, his hand twitching towards his throat but unable to move, attached to the tubes and wires as it was.

"I think I love you." Sherlock hesitated, thinking quickly. "No, I know I love you, John."

John's white cheeks flushed with a little bit of delicate pink, and Sherlock cursed the color, obviously John knew it would make Sherlock love him more.

"Do you really?" were the first soft words out of John's mouth. He looked afraid. Definitely not what Sherlock expected. "Is this just because I saved you? Because you're my best friend, and I-"

"No, I've been falling in love with you since I met you. But I tried to ignore it. Love is worse than digestion, slows me down." Sherlock attempted a smile. John just stared. "I believe the proper thing to do now is answer me."

"I love you." John whispered, and Sherlock's tension immediately shot through his veins in relief and joy. He had never felt that way before.

"Oh, John." Sherlock seemed to be, at once, at a loss for words. He couldn't remember ever having felt that way before.

"Why is this my life?" John groaned, closing his eyes again and scrunching his face up. "Why did I find you for a flatmate, why did I have to be the one you decided to show actual emotion for, why did I have to fall in love with you?"

"I...don't understand your reaction." Sherlock cocked his head, confused, looking at John with his eyes narrowed, trying to comprehend.

"My life is so fucked up." John growled to himself. "I almost died and I feel fantastic because I love you."

Sherlock continued staring at John like he had grown another head. "I don't understand."

"It's hard to explain. I'm just confused that I almost died, I chase people around London for you, I killed for you, but all I feel for you is love. That's confusing." John tried his best to explain, and Sherlock nodded.

"Okay." he nodded again, and bent down slightly towards John. He hesitated. "Okay."

"Okay?" John whispered, his clouded eyes scanning Sherlock's face.

"Okay." Sherlock finished bending his head down and pressed his lips to John's gently as he could, his fingertips softly playing with the soft, thin hairs at the nape of John's neck.

John had been a lot happier since his return from the hospital three months ago. He and Sherlock began dating, but neither of them were huge fans of public displays of affection, so they refrained from touching each other obviously in public.

Still, they couldn't completely control themselves. Sometimes, when Sherlock got frustrated with not being able to put the pieces together, John would rub the back of his head or his back soothingly. While Sherlock examined a scene and John knelt over a body, Sherlock would brush his hand over John's back every time he passed. Enough for people to pick up on.

John limped slightly now all the time from the chunk missing in his right leg, which limited the amount of dashing around London he could do. It frustrated him greatly to not be able to protect Sherlock constantly, so he usually just ignored the pain and uneven running and took off after Sherlock anyways.

DI Lestrade told Sherlock and John when he noticed and told them to remember their work when they were on the job. Anderson just stared at them blankly, dumbly, as he usually did. Sally stopped calling Sherlock "freak" after Sherlock told John that he felt kind of bad for being called a freak when he was being himself, and John flipped on Sally the next time that she called Sherlock a freak. Sherlock and Sally were on better terms now; John and Sally, not so much. Molly was disappointed, of course, and so was Sarah; both were to be expected, especially Sarah. Mycroft gave his blessing in his own way; he took Sherlock out to the best shop in London to help him buy a ring for John. Sherlock refused adamantly until Mycroft convinced him he'd need it eventually.

Now, though, John and Sherlock were curled together in John's bed. Sherlock was wrapped around John, his long limbs tightly holding on, John's face buried in Sherlock's neck. John's breathing was steady in his chest, save for the occasional mutter or yawn in his sleep. Sherlock enjoyed the noise, treasured each movement, because he still remembered far too vividly a time when it was gone.

John whispered Sherlock's name in his sleep, and Sherlock looked down at him. The long scar that was exceptionally visible from the crown of his head, diagonal down to his jaw, moved when he spoke. Sherlock kissed the scar where it appeared on his cheek.

"Sleep, love." Sherlock whispered, and John did.


	3. Your Eyes Are Blue Again

John Watson should've known what he was getting into. The first time he met Sherlock Holmes, he should've known this life wouldn't be an easy one; the first time he went on a case with him, he should've known this life wouldn't be a long one. But, he ignored all that, instead turning to how alive it made him feel, more than anything had before, more than even war had. He focused on how much he enjoyed identifying bodies and solving cases and tailing Sherlock around London.

Maybe he should've paid more attention to the things that could've gone wrong. Then he maybe, just maybe, would not have been in this situation right now.

 _Well, no, I take that back._  John thought, staring into the short, round glass in between his hands. Nothing could ever compare to his life with Sherlock, he wouldn't trade it for any other life he could've had. He looked up at Sherlock, seeing the back of his head as he bent over his glass.

**Sherlock stared at the loose threads of the sofa cushion, curled up in a ball in his robe with his back to the room. John was typing furiously at his laptop, having already tried to ask Sherlock what he was thinking about now and failing. Sherlock just listened to the keys typing, he could identify each letter by the** _**clack** _ **it made, and he had already heard his name typed out several times. It made him smile a little.**

**He heard the keys stop and the slight groan John made as he stretched his arms above his head in that way he did. Sherlock didn't even need to turn around to know he was doing that, know that he was now rubbing his left hand over his face, rubbing his eyes tiredly, and now looking at Sherlock's back, he could feel his eyes on him.**

**"Yes, John?" Sherlock asked, trying to make his tone sound exasperated. John hesitated, and Sherlock bit his lip to hold back a sigh. He knew John picked up on the fact that he was acting.**

**"Nothing, Sherlock." John must've been grinding his teeth, from the sound of his voice. Sherlock sat up and turned, putting his feet on the floor and his elbows on his knees. He ruffled his hair with his hands and looked up at John.**

**"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked again, and John clicked something on his laptop before shutting it.**

**"I was just looking up at you, is all." John told him, turning his face away. Was he** _**blushing** _ **?**

**"Are you blushing?" Sherlock asked bluntly, and John looked up, his eyes slightly wider and his cheeks ruddy. "You are."**

**"You don't make me blush, Sherlock." John said firmly, and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow before flipping back around towards the sofa cushions.**

John wished he had told him then that Sherlock has always made him blush, and he always will, until the end of his days, which is looking perceptibly closer and closer with every passing second. He let his hand twitch towards the cup, looking into the water inside. It looked clear. Sherlock was beside him, and he swiftly plucked the cup away from John and held it beside his own, holding the two small glasses up to the light.

"Certainly changes the game a bit when John's involved, doesn't it?" Jim asked in his high voice. "You're not so fast to decide, not so fast to choose, like you were with the pills."

John watched Sherlock analyze the two glasses. Jim had slid a glass to each of them and told them that one glass was poisoned and one wasn't, and Sherlock and John each had to drink one. Sherlock frowned at the glasses.

"John's life is infinitely more important than the cabbie's." Sherlock muttered, not looking away from the glasses. John looked down at his hands. He knew what he was going to do, no matter what.

"Oh, Sherlock, you can't wear your heart on your sleeve like that." Jim scolded him in his own weird way. John watched Jim's face as he smiled at Sherlock.

"You get some sort of perverse pleasure out of this, don't you, you sick bastard?" John spat at Jim. Jim turned his attention to John, grinning wider.

"I do, actually. It's fascinating to see his mind work." Jim went back to watching Sherlock, who was still thoroughly examining the water. John blinked.

**"What happened here?" John asked as he and Sherlock entered the small room, the scene of a grisly murder. Buckets of water were constantly underfoot, full of drips from the ceiling.**

**"Young man murdered, no sign of any blood. Not even in the man." Lestrade explained as Sherlock asked a newer Yarder for a glass. The woman dashed downstairs and returned shortly with a small, clear glass for him, which he promptly filled with water from a bucket and began examining.**

**"What's he looking for?" Sherlock heard Lestrade ask John, and he heard the rustle of John's wet raincoat as he shrugged.**

**"Probably an example of evidence of DNA in the water." John said quietly, trying not to distract Sherlock from his examination. Sherlock mentally applauded him for that one.**

**"John's right. And there might be something in here." Sherlock threw the glass to the floor, crossing to John. "Can you send a text for me?"**

**"Yes, Sherlock." John sighed, the barest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he dug Sherlock's phone out of his jacket pocket. Sherlock hesitated before clapping his hand on John's shoulder.**

**"Thank you." he told John earnestly, and John looked up from his phone at him and smiled. Lestrade cleared his throat, and Sherlock spun around, narrating who to send the message to and what it was to read.**

John couldn't help but smile slightly at the triumphant way Sherlock's face lit up. He put the two glasses down on the table and slid one of them to John.

"I know which one's poisoned." Sherlock said, a hint of pride in his voice, and a bit of solid fear underlying it, something Jim didn't pick up on, but John did. The look in his eyes, his expression, his tone, it told John everything he was feeling, but nobody else seemed to notice.

John pulled on all his ability that he'd picked up from Sherlock, all the acting and masquerading and everything, everything he'd learned, for what he had to do next. He looked up above Sherlock's head, changing everything from his expression to his posture to show that he thought there was some sort of danger there.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, gesturing towards the high wall. Sherlock immediately turned around, scanning the wall for the danger. John quickly switched the glasses quietly. John hesitated, thinking quickly.

 _He's a genius. He'd know I'd switch the glasses._  John thought, switching them back before Sherlock turned around, and then caught Jim's eye. Jim just laughed, and Sherlock turned back around at the noise.

"What was there? What did you do?" he demanded, and Jim just shrugged.

"Just a little projection for Johnny." Jim smiled, and John felt a brief moment of gratitude for the man before remembering he was the reason for all this. Sherlock turned to him before looking down at his glass.

"It's now or never, then, I suppose." John said gently, calmly, picking up his glass just so that his hand was covering where the liquid inside was visible to Sherlock, in case he decided to check. Sherlock picked up his own glass, smiling at John, that fucking smile.

**Sherlock smiled at John, John's closed eyes, his smiling lips, his light breathing as he slept. He ran his hand over John's cheeks, to his shoulder, down his chest. John blinked and looked at him, smiling sleepily. Sherlock cursed him for being so adorable in the morning.**

**"How long have you been up?" John asked, rubbing his eyes and stretching his arms above his head.**

**"I didn't fall asleep. I couldn't." Sherlock hoped that John wouldn't push, and he didn't. Sherlock smiled again, that fucking smile that he knew John melted at.**

**"Your eyes are blue again." John said off-handedly. Sherlock blinked and kissed John once.**

**"Thank you." Sherlock told him quietly, and John smiled.**

**"No, Sherlock. Thank you."**

John watched as Sherlock drank his water, making sure he did drink it before drinking his own.

"But this...this tastes like water." Sherlock's voice was confused, so puzzled, and John sputtered as he coughed at the bitter taste of his own water. Sherlock's head snapped up.

"You didn't switch the glasses." Sherlock whispered. John shook his head.

"I did. But then I switched them back, I know you too well for that, far too well." John looked down into his empty glass, placing it on the table with a sigh.

"John, you...you..." Sherlock sputtered, knocking his chair over and standing up. John stood up, pushing his chair back.

"That was so touching, it's beautiful, honestly." Jim commented, smiling at Sherlock. Sherlock looked up, eyes blazing, and pulled his fist back before letting it snap forward, connecting with Jim's face with a sickening  _crack_. John stepped back in surprise. Jim stumbled backwards, holding his hands against his face, blood pouring through the cracks in his fingers and down his wrists.

"Sherlock. Calm down." John's voice had enough of a broken tone that Sherlock turned to him.

"John, how could you?" Sherlock looked down at the glasses. "Don't you know how much you mean to me?"

**"You mean so much to me, Sherlock." John whispered in that gentle way he had. Sherlock looked up from his phone.**

**"Thank you, John." Sherlock smiled slightly before returning his attention to the phone screen.**

**"I really mean it. You mean everything to me." John told him again, and this time Sherlock slid his phone shut and put it on the table.**

**"Is something bothering you?" Sherlock asked, scanning John's face and hands for signs of anxiety or nervousness. He could find none.**

**"Nothing's bothering me, I just wanted to make sure you knew." John smiled at him.**

**"I know, John." Sherlock smiled back at him. "I do."**

John gripped the edge of the chair back tightly to keep himself upright as he felt his knees weakening. Jim leaned against the wall, plugging his nose with one hand.

"John, what can I do?" Sherlock's hands fluttered uselessly about John's body. Jim laughed bitterly.

"There's not a thing you can do, it's already in his system." Jim smiled. "Another half an hour and he'll be dead."

John turned to look at Jim, frowning. "Why?"

"I knew you'd never let Sherlock drink it. I want to break him." Jim's smile widened into a grin, and he gestured to John with his free hand. "You're the easiest way to do that."

John felt a sensation in his stomach like he was being stabbed. He gasped and doubled over, letting go of the chair and falling to his knees. Sherlock immediately dropped down beside him, trying to lift him back onto his feet.

"Come on, John, you'll be fine. Stand up!" Sherlock shouted, hefting him up. John wrapped his arm around his middle as the invisible dagger twisted, biting his lip to keep from shouting and upsetting Sherlock further.

"You're going to be fine, John, I promise. You'll be fine." Sherlock insisted, sitting John in the chair and turning to Jim. "You will fix this."

"'Fraid not, love." Jim smiled at Sherlock in a twisted kind of sympathy.

 _No, not sympathy,_ John decided.  _Excitement._

"Fix this!" Sherlock shouted, his voice cracking. He turned back down to John. "John, you're going to be fine, I promise, okay?"

"Okay, Sherlock." John whispered, bringing his knees up to his chest in the chair and wrapping his arms around his shins.

"This is so unfortunate. I wish I was recording this." Jim's mouth popped open in faux surprise. "Oh, wait, I am!" Jim motioned up to the cameras in the corners of the high, white room. "This'll make for excellent footage. Ooh, maybe we could get a screencap for the Christmas card."

"Shut up, just  _shut up_ , you bastard!" Sherlock shouted, not taking his eyes off of John. "John, I promise, we'll get you to a hospital and you'll be okay, even if I have to give you my own blood to replace yours."

"Sherlock, can you do something for me?" John asked softly, and Sherlock nodded vigorously.

"Yes, John, anything, I'll do anything." Sherlock touched John's face, maybe trying to make sure he's still there.

"Don't forget yourself." John whispered, and Sherlock shook his head.

"I won't forget myself, you're a part of myself, you're still here, you'll stay here." Sherlock said furiously, as though he was trying to will it to be true be speaking it.

"You're forgetting now, this isn't you." John unfolded himself from the chair and stood up. "This is you panicking. You never panic."

**"Sherlock, why are you so calm?" John asked from the other chair. He and Sherlock were tied to two chairs facing back-to-back in a cold, dark stone room. "You can hear them just as well as I can, and they're discussing how to kill us."**

**"I'm sure there's a way out of this." Sherlock muttered, mostly to himself, as he tried to dislocate his wrist to slip it out of the tightly-bound ropes.**

**"Sherlock, this is it. They're going to kill us, there is no way out." John sounded miserable. Sherlock had to remedy that if they were going to get anywhere.**

**"We are going to be fine, John. I know how to do this." Sherlock heard his wrist click and he finally slipped his hands out of the ropes, snapping it back into place.**

**"I love you." John whispered, and Sherlock's long fingers froze on the knot.**

**"There is no time for that, John, no need to make any proclamations." Sherlock told him sternly, undoing the tough knot before turning to unknot John's.**

**"I just need you to know, just in case." John's voice broke. "Please, Sherlock."**

**"We're going to be fine." Sherlock untied John's knots and slipped them off of him. "Here, see. There's loose stones." Sherlock kicked a stone at about John's shoulder height and it fell away into the wall, allowing sunlight to shoot into the room. John helped, pushing in ones around his height until there was enough space for them to pass through.**

**"See? Easy." Sherlock stepped through the opening, grabbing John and pulling him through after him. "We're fine."**

**"I still love you." John whispered quietly, and Sherlock pretended he didn't hear. He didn't need to have the guilt of love weighing on his conscience if he kept bringing John everywhere.**

"I think he has every right to panic, John, dear." Jim lightly scolded him. Sherlock scowled.

"Don't call him  _dear_ , Moriarty." Sherlock growled, touching John's face. John's knees buckled under him, and he gasped aloud.

"Sherlock, don't let me die, please." he pleaded, and Sherlock eased him into the chair.

"Shh, John, I won't." Sherlock kissed his forehead and ran his fingers through John's hair. "It'll be okay."

"Uhm, actually, it won't be. He's got roughly ten minutes left." Jim clicked his teeth and shrugged. "Everybody has to go sometime, I suppose."

John's eyes were wide as he looked up at Sherlock. "I have ten minutes, Sherlock."

"You have so much more time, John. There has to be a way out of this, there's a way to fix this, you're going to be fine." Sherlock pressed two of his long fingers to John's neck. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's wrist.

"Sherlock, no. I have ten-"

"Eight." Jim chipped in, and John glared at him. "Sorry, sorry. Go on."

"-eight minutes left. That's it." John tightened his grip on Sherlock's wrist. "I don't regret it. The world needs you."

"The world needs you, too, John." Sherlock's eyes looked wet. John was surprised, he's never seen Sherlock honestly cry, not once. He's never even been legitimately teary.

"Not as much as it needs you." John bit his lip hard against the pain, feeling a coppery taste in his mouth from the slight trickle of blood.

"What hurts?" Sherlock asked softly, checking over his exposed skin.

"You're not going to find anything, it's just shutting down his organs from the inside." Jim commented, coming around to them. Sherlock stood up to his full height.

"Leave." he ordered, and Jim seemed genuinely surprised for just a moment before he regained his composure.

"I'll be watching you break, don't worry." he hissed to Sherlock before looking down at John. "Goodbye, John. It was nice to know you, love."

Sherlock balled his fists again, but John laid his hand on his arm, looking up at him pleadingly.

"Five minutes, Sherlock." Jim clasped Sherlock's shoulder and blew a kiss to John before leaving, slamming the door behind him. John looked up at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"I'm scared, Sherlock." John whispered before he gasped loudly, letting his head fall forward as he wrapped his arms around his torso.

"This isn't it, John, it's not." Sherlock insisted. John looked up at him, then down at the floor.

"I think I'll lie down." John stood shakily, clinging to the chair.

"No, hold on." Sherlock pushed everything off the table and picked John up, laying him down on the table gently. "Better?"

"Sure." John forced a smile onto his face as he clutched at his side. "Oh, god, that'll be a kidney, won't it." John laid his head down and closed his eyes. "It hurts, Sherlock."

"It won't anymore, John. It won't, I promise." Sherlock touched his face, kneeling beside the table. "Why?"

John opened his eyes to stare into Sherlock's. "Why what?" his voice was raspy, thin, almost gone. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath before answering, forcing his eyes open again. John's were duller than before.

"Why are you dying for me?" Sherlock whispered, and John reached for his hand. Sherlock grabbed it in both of his and squeezed.

"Because I love you, you idiot." John smiled. "Don't worry about that, though. Practically everyone is."

"An idiot?" Sherlock asked softly, and John squeezed his hands weakly.

"No. In love with you. It's hard not to be." John's face screwed up in pain, and Sherlock stared helplessly.

"I love you, John." Sherlock whispered, and John forced a smile on his face, staring into Sherlock's eyes.

"Your eyes are blue again." John whispered. "That's my favorite."

Sherlock watched as John shut his eyes.

"No." John's hand went limp in Sherlock's two, his fingers unclenching. Sherlock let go, standing up, tears streaming steadily down his face.  _This is what it feels like to die._  The door swung open.

"Is it over?" Jim peeked at John's still body, unmoving chest. "Oh, good. That was dreadful to watch, you know. I almost wish I hadn't." He paused a moment. "Almost."

"You bastard." Sherlock crossed over to Jim in three long strides, leaning over him menacingly.

"What are you going to do, kill me?" Jim asked, smiling widely. He obviously was not afraid.

"No. I want you to kill me." Sherlock told him sincerely, the tears halting. He brushed the wetness off of his face.

"Oh, you're serious." Jim laughed. "You're completely serious. Hm...no, I don't think I will."

"Why not?" Sherlock demanded. "That's what you want, isn't it?" Spiraling. He'll be back with John soon, he never believed in any kind of afterlife, but John has to be  _somewhere_ , doesn't he?

"No, what I want is to break you." Jim kept laughing. Sherlock just stared at him. "John's death did that better than your own." Jim turned and went back through the door. "Shout when you're ready for him to be collected. It's your decision, you put him there." The door shut loudly behind him.

Sherlock turned around slowly, and saw John's still body. And he broke.

**"Sherlock?"**

**"Yes, John?" Sherlock turned away from his microscope at John's completely serious face.**

**"I love you." John whispered, and Sherlock smiled.**

**"I love you, too, John." Sherlock leaned over and gave him a quick kiss before returning to his microscope. He heard a rustle and John's shadow vanished. He turned back to see him kneeling on the ground. "John?"**

**"Marry me, Sherlock?" John asked, looking up at him with those wide eyes. Sherlock chuckled.**

**"You want me to marry you?" he asked, just to verify this wasn't some trick. John half-smiled.**

**"Yes, I do." He looked from Sherlock's legs at eye level up to his face. "God, you're tall."**

**"Yes." Sherlock crouched down beside him.**

**"Yes, you're tall?" John laughed, and Sherlock kissed him.**

**"Well, you're short. And I'll marry you." Sherlock smiled, and John beamed at him.**

**"I'm so excited to spend the rest of my life with you." John said giddily.**

_And he did._

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicoIodeon](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


End file.
